superhero

I have this fantasy of being a superhero. THE SUPERHERO BANISHING THE WORLD OF CLUTTER. I’m in the gang with all the other superheroes. Because who else are you going to hang with. Everyone else is so pathetic, what with being ordinary and all. Anyway, we’d be meeting for strategy sessions all the time, and they’d be talking about their plans for evil-banishing and such, and I’d have to be all “working without a net” because I’d be the only one banishing the world of clutter. I’d be the exceptional superhero. I’d have no backup. Any one of them could call in with a sick day, and I’d be like, “Dude, I have the WORST case of pink eye ever, but I’ve gotta come in. That clutter’s not going to declutter itself. See you guys in a bit.” So, we’d all leave the Batcave. You know we’d be headquartered in the Batcave, right? I mean, you’ve seen that place. It’s sick. We’d hang out with that simp Batman just for his sweet digs. Anyway, we’d holler out an enthusiastic, “BREAK!” and go off on our separate missions. Everyone else to fight crime/evil/forces of darkness. And I’d go off to fight clutter. It’s a valid cause, not to be underestimated. Clutter is some serious shit, y’all. Like, let’s just say that your mother gave you a check for Christmas to cover some stuff that you bought all spontaneous-like for your kids and wanted to have your uncle give them for the holiday. And let’s just say you found that check TWO MONTHS LATER. Because of the evil of clutter. Do I need to say more?

And nobody takes clutter all that seriously. Well, except for me. Which is how that check happened to disappear into a drawer for later perusal with a stack of other offending items. I hear you. You’re saying that it’s my fault that the check was only found two months later because I threw it in that drawer. That my irrational fear of clutter caused the whole mess in the first place. At least that’s what I think you were saying. The dog was barking, and I had to let her outside. But maybe you have a point. I don’t know. All I know is this. I LOATHE CLUTTER. When my surroundings are messy, I get twitchy. Or more accurately, when surroundings under my control are messy, I get twitchy. When I’m in someone else’s house or office, and it looks like some natural disaster just took place, I’m pretty chill. Unless you are getting ready to ask me to locate something in there. Then, I’m probably prepping my look of incredulity for you. But if I’m in my home or work space and things are messy, I’m squirrelly. Which is why I’m supremely happy when the house is clean and clutter-free. I reach a state of zen where I smile benevolently at everyone, and people are free to mess me about in ways that I wouldn’t tolerate in a clutter zone. Lexi, would you care to poop on my foot, dear dog? Go right ahead, but be sure to clean it up afterwards because that’s clutter. Love you, pup. Anna and JT? Would you like to play on your electronics for hours on end while you rot your brain irrevocably? Please feel free to do so. I’m in my clutter-free space, and life is good.

Of course the truth of the matter is that the clutter-free space cannot be maintained with these people that I live with. And I don’t know if it’s purposeful. I haven’t seen any indications to make me suspect so, but if I step outside of the situation, I’d think it would be funny to see my reactions to the cluttering of my space just as I get everything in order. I’ll clean the house, and instruct everyone as to where items belong. This is always a repeat of previous instructions, so it’s not like people don’t know where to put things. Then, an hour will pass and I’ll come into a room and find some random item like a yearbook laying in the center of a table. Like a beacon. Perhaps to draw attention to this table as the upcoming center of clutter. I can hardly wait! I’m breathless with anticipation! And what’s worse? Sometimes the items my family members leave around are odd, rarely-used items that I swear they pull out purely to mess with my mind. Wonderful! Here is my pet rock circa 2004 that I found in a backpack in the garage. I’m going to pull this out and put it on that table where I placed that yearbook the other day. I’m on the fence about whether to keep this pet rock or not, so I’ll just put it on the table. I think the answer will come to me, or it will disappear. I’m ok with that, too. It’s kind of ugly. It really looks like it came from the street in front of our house.

When I see these items, I stop and immediately freak out. I may pace while muttering unintelligibly to myself. But I’m always hilariously irate at the object, whatever it may be. You stupid, stupid pet rock. You are going into the trash right now. Good grief! Where in the world did he even find you? You are the ugliest piece of gravel I’ve ever even seen. Why can’t you at least have a sheen or a color of some sort to recommend you? You know he’s already forgotten you even exist, right? He put you down here and promptly forgot that he did so. Because you are stupid. And ugly. You are gravel. And you are now trash. Well, I’m obviously not going to put you in the trash because that’s stupid. You are gravel. I’m going to put you in the street. But cars are going to drive over you. How do you like that, huh?

Maybe my family members are slowly trying to desensitize me to clutter? If so, that’s sweet, I guess. If I try really hard to look on the bright side. But IT’S NOT WORKING, SO QUIT IT!!!

I am a creative type who's carting 3 lbs. of crazy around in my head. Periodically, I let Her Majesty spew out her excess garbage on my website, so I can silence the lambs when their cries become too much to bear. Yes, I've given my brain separate billing. Think that's odd? Take it up with the gelatinous monster.
I believe in binge-watching, running, taking endless pictures of my devil dog, obsessive, marathon reading stints and the campaign to end the positioning of pickles next to delicious food items thereby contaminating everything with pickle juice. I regard the presence of licorice flavor in my food as a personal attack. I'm alarmingly addicted to alliteration. I am not afraid of a run-on sentence. Oh, and I take ping pong very seriously. No, really.